_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">Night - Noble Gathering Hall, Tournament Complex

  Aric stood near one of the massive stone pilrs that lined the Noble Gathering Hall, a goblet of premium blood untouched in his hand as he surveyed the room. The evening's social gathering had been designed as a respite from the tournament's rigorous trials, but the undercurrents of politics flowed as strongly here as anywhere else. Perhaps more dangerously, since words could cut deeper than bdes in vampire society.

  His eyes kept returning, against his will, to the same corner of the room.

  Lord Nathaniel Hargrove stood surrounded by a cluster of nobles from various territories, his copper-red hair catching the light from the crystal chandeliers above. His lithe frame seemed to command attention despite his youth, and his aristocratic gestures held the easy confidence of centuries of noble blood.

  "The young Hargrove makes quite an impression," observed Viscount Gregory, a court socialite from Dante's territory who had approached without Aric noticing. "Remarkable for someone so new to these gatherings."

  Aric kept his expression neutral. "He performs well in the trials."

  "Indeed," Gregory said, swirling the blood in his goblet. "But his performance seems particurly effective in these social settings. Note how Duchess Isolde hangs on his every word."

  Aric followed his gaze. The Duchess—an ancient vampire from Seraphina's territory with flowing silver hair and an eborate gown of midnight blue—was indeed leaning closer than strictly necessary toward Nathaniel, her ughter musical even across the crowded hall. Her hand rested briefly on his arm, lingering a moment longer than propriety demanded.

  Something twisted unexpectedly in Aric's chest.

  "Your goblet, Your Grace," Viscount Gregory noted with poorly concealed amusement. "I believe you're in danger of crushing it."

  Aric loosened his grip on the crystal, realizing too te that his fingers had tightened around it. He set the goblet carefully on a passing servant's tray.

  "If you'll excuse me, Viscount," he said with a formal bow. "I have matters to attend to."

  Gregory's knowing smile followed him as he moved away, choosing a path that deliberately led away from Nathaniel's gathering. He found a momentary haven on the terrace outside, the night air cool against his face.

  What in the blood hell was that? he thought, bracing his hands against the stone balustrade.

  He'd felt jealousy before—he wasn't that disconnected from his emotions. But jealousy over a male vampire's attentions? He'd never experienced attraction to men in three centuries of existence. His preferences had always been exclusively female, both before and after the Evolution.

  Yet the sight of Nathaniel charming Duchess Isolde had provoked a visceral response he couldn't deny or expin away. It wasn't just competition—he'd felt that with plenty of male rivals over the centuries—but something more personal, more possessive.

  "Your Grace seems troubled," came a voice from the shadows.

  Morris, his valet, appeared with that perfect timing that made him invaluable. He carried a fresh goblet, this one filled with a darker, more potent vintage.

  "Your preference from the northern provinces," Morris said, offering the goblet. "I thought it might be welcome."

  Aric accepted it with a nod of thanks. Morris had served him for nearly fifty years and could read his moods with unsettling accuracy.

  "The tournament progresses well for you," Morris observed, standing at a respectful distance. "The leadership trial results were announced this afternoon. You've maintained your position at the top of the rankings."

  "And Lord Hargrove?" Aric asked before he could stop himself.

  "Currently third, Your Grace. His diplomatic performance yesterday was particurly noted by the judges from Archduke Lucius's territory."

  Aric nodded, taking a slow sip of the blood. It was excellent—rich and complex with notes of iron and a subtle sweetness that spoke of a carefully managed bloodline. But he barely registered the quality.

  "He seems to be enjoying the evening's festivities," Aric said, aiming for casual disinterest and knowing he failed.

  Morris's expression didn't change, but something flickered briefly in his eyes.

  "Indeed, Your Grace. Lord Hargrove has drawn considerable attention from many quarters. His... unique qualities seem particurly appealing to certain elements of the court."

  Aric turned to face the open doors, watching as Nathaniel moved from one group to another within the hall. There was something about his movements—a grace that seemed both studied and natural, as though he had absorbed aristocratic deportment through lifelong exposure but still made it entirely his own.

  "Lord Hargrove is a competitor, Morris. Nothing more."

  "Of course, Your Grace."

  "We've formed a temporary alliance regarding the sabotage attempts. That's the extent of our association."

  "Entirely practical, Your Grace."

  "The fact that I find his company unexpectedly... stimuting... intellectually, that is... means nothing beyond the tournament."

  "Naturally, Your Grace."

  Aric shot his valet a sharp look. "Your agreement is becoming irritating, Morris."

  The valet's lips twitched almost imperceptibly. "My apologies, Your Grace. Would you prefer I disagree?"

  Aric sighed, draining the goblet in a single swallow. "What I'd prefer is understanding why I find myself distinctly unsettled by watching Duchess Isolde simper over a competitor I've known for barely a month."

  Morris remained silent for a long moment, appearing to choose his words with care.

  "If I may speak freely, Your Grace?"

  "When have you ever waited for permission?"

  Morris inclined his head in acknowledgment of the jab. "You've spent three centuries focusing exclusively on merit and capability. It's the foundation of your worldview—that individuals should be judged by their actions and abilities, not their birth or bloodline."

  Aric nodded impatiently. "Your point?"

  "Perhaps your... interest... in Lord Hargrove follows the same principle. You've discovered qualities you admire, regardless of the vessel in which they're housed."

  Aric stared at his valet. "Are you suggesting I'm attracted to him because of his mind?"

  "I'm merely observing that your preferences have always been guided by substance over form, Your Grace. Why should this be different?"

  Before Aric could respond, movement at the terrace entrance caught his attention. Nathaniel had stepped outside, his silhouette backlit by the hall's golden light. For a moment, he didn't notice Aric's presence, his face turned toward the night sky with an expression of such unguarded relief that Aric felt like an intruder witnessing something private.

  When Nathaniel finally spotted him, his posture immediately shifted back to careful aristocratic composure—shoulders squared, chin slightly raised, hands csped behind his back.

  "Your Grace," he said with a formal bow. "I apologize for the intrusion. I didn't realize the terrace was occupied."

  "It's a public space, Lord Hargrove," Aric replied, his voice sounding strangely tight to his own ears. "You're welcome to enjoy the night air."

  Nathaniel hesitated, then moved to the balustrade several feet away from Aric. "The social obligations can become... overwhelming."

  "I wouldn't have expected that from someone raised in Orlov's court. I thought endless social machinations were the primary occupation there."

  A brief smile flickered across Nathaniel's features. "Perhaps that's precisely why I find them tiring. One can only endure so many centuries of the same empty conversations."

  Morris discreetly stepped back into the shadows, effectively disappearing while remaining within call. Aric found himself moving closer to Nathaniel, drawn by some force he couldn't name.

  "You seemed to be enjoying the Duchess's attention," he said, immediately regretting the words.

  Nathaniel's violet eyes widened slightly. "The Duchess is a retion through my mother's bloodline. She was merely offering family gossip disguised as flirtation."

  "Ah," Aric said, feeling both relieved and foolish. "I misunderstood."

  "Did you?" Nathaniel asked, studying him with an intensity that made Aric uncomfortable. "Why would my interactions with the Duchess concern you, Your Grace?"

  The direct question caught Aric off-guard. Three centuries of experience in ducal politics hadn't prepared him for the simple, devastating directness of Nathaniel's inquiry.

  "They don't," he said, the lie obvious even to his own ears.

  Nathaniel seemed about to press further when a commotion from inside the hall drew their attention. A messenger had entered, moving directly toward Lucius's representatives with urgent purpose.

  "It seems our respite is over," Nathaniel observed, turning back to Aric. "The messenger appears to be announcing the schedule for the upcoming crisis management trial."

  "Yes," Aric agreed, grateful for the change of subject. "Your preparation has begun?"

  "I've started studying previous years' crisis scenarios, though I expect they'll create something entirely new for us this time."

  The conversation had returned to safer ground—the tournament, strategies, competition. Yet Aric remained acutely aware of Nathaniel's proximity, the way the night breeze stirred his copper hair, the elegant line of his jaw in profile.

  "I should return," Nathaniel said after a moment. "My absence will be noted."

  "Of course."

  Nathaniel hesitated, then turned to face him fully. "Your Grace... Aric. May I ask a personal question?"

  The use of his given name sent an unexpected thrill through Aric's body. "You may."

  "Have you ever found yourself... surprised by your own reactions? Feeling things you never expected to feel?"

  The question hung between them, yered with meanings Aric wasn't sure he fully comprehended. He could have deflected, could have returned to formal distance and tournament protocols. Instead, he found himself answering with unexpected honesty.

  "Increasingly often, Lord Hargrove." His voice dropped lower, almost against his will. "Especially in your presence."

  Something fshed in Nathaniel's eyes—relief? Fear? Anticipation? Before Aric could decipher it, the younger vampire had composed himself again, the aristocratic mask sliding seamlessly back into pce.

  "Good night, Your Grace," he said with another formal bow. "May your hunt be successful tomorrow."

  Aric watched him return to the hall, his graceful figure soon swallowed by the crowd of nobles. He remained on the terrace long after, trying to make sense of feelings he had never anticipated and could not expin—unwanted jealousy toward a male vampire that challenged everything he thought he knew about himself.

  Morris reappeared silently at his side.

  "Shall we return to your quarters, Your Grace? You'll want to review the announcements about the upcoming trials."

  Aric nodded, following his valet through the gardens rather than reentering the hall. His mind circled back to Nathaniel's question—about being surprised by one's own reactions.

  Yes, indeed, he thought. More than you could possibly know.

  The night wrapped around him like a cloak as he walked, the stars above bearing witness to the silent turmoil within.